


Seether

by levitatethis



Series: The Underground Resistance [2]
Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Reality, Future Fic, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-16
Updated: 2010-05-16
Packaged: 2017-10-09 11:56:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levitatethis/pseuds/levitatethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set about a week after the dinner in <strong><span class="u">The Living Dead</span></strong>, Peter has arrived in Barcelona to discuss Second Wave Resistance fighting tactics given the new information brought to light (about a previously unknown Company man) while Sylar tries to sort out where he fits in with regards to the bigger picture.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seether

_Damn the angry voice that keeps us quiet   
The editor whose work is never done   
Keeping pretty words beneath my teeth and   
Sweet confessions underneath my tongue _

_Drowsy contemplation   
Do I let you in?   
This is my invitation   
But how do I begin?   
_**-Sarah Slean, _My Invitation_**

 

Sylar devotes much of his time to tactical contemplations.

As with a game of chess, he not only can anticipate the next move but the ten that will then follow any given one.

Even when people believe they are being random in an attempt surprise attack there is actually logic in the coordinated steps.

A method to the madness, precision is everything.

Sylar thrives on his ability to figure out the clues that are too subtle for most people to recognize.

Although his years as a watchmaker may have been mundane he can now see their necessity. Without that learned specificity and patience, without that devotion and solitude, he could not have channeled his natural inclination for singular superiority into the man he has become. Then again maybe it was that natural ability simmering below his skin that made him such a skilled watchmaker in the first place.

Either way, had he been analyzing the seemingly uninteresting moments of his life prior to Chandra showing up at his father's shop, Sylar would have seen all the predestined moves leading up to the twinkling door chimes followed by the patterned steps that have brought him to the here and now.

Being three steps ahead of everyone else is an advantage Sylar now uses wisely. Even when put in the most submissive of situations, stripped of everything that made him the most unique of all, he had seen the one move that would end the round with him back on top.

Still, moments of his weakness are rare; the stories greatly exaggerated.

Being rational does not spare Sylar from the weight of emotional chains. He is better now, but there was a time when frustration and distemper, jealousy, clouded his judgment in much more problematic ways.

There are many people that still arouse anger in him. He despises The Company and those who have cruelly carried out its directives for experimental torture against him as a guinea pig.

He dislikes those who do not use their evolved abilities the way they should. Those who choose to lead boring and unexceptional lives by dismissing the greater alternative. In fact Sylar dislikes almost everyone, powers or not.

There are so few who rise to the occasion of potential greatness that glimmers on their horizon. It is such a misuse of something so perfectly rare but Sylar does not waste his pity on the unenlightened. He simply takes what they refuse. It is in his power to do so and it would be blasphemous not to.

Dislike is not a foreign concept to Sylar, but his hatred is reserved for only one. So much like him in the way that matters most, Peter is the figurative fraternal brother, the Abel to Sylar's Cain, the loved versus the hated.

Power for power they are nearly matched; a distasteful reality check that Sylar can never ignore. However where Peter seems to reside in the grace of God, Sylar is tattooed with the mark of the Beast, a notion he finds most unfair despite his bloodstained hands.

Sylar wishes his hatred for Peter were only the result of a power-driven pissing contest. The unsavory truth is that it is rooted much deeper.

Sitting in the living room, on a sofa, of a small Barcelona flat, Sylar diligently watches Mohinder and Peter fervently speak in the kitchen.

Knowing he could listen in at any time Sylar prefers to analyze their wide eyes, rigid hand gestures and quick moving lips as they discuss the latest information he has brought them regarding the whereabouts of the shadowy and previously unknown Company figure, Massimo Asinni.

Occasionally he allows their words to seep in. Information about five Specials under Peter's watch already on high alert waiting for orders while Maya sets up the nucleus of the Third Front with Claire's partnership filters through.

There is an unfortunate distraction that has nothing to do with the Resistance's planning, however, which claws at Sylar's skin.

The aliases that shield Peter and Mohinder from the probing tentacles that reach forward from the past cannot disguise their mutual affinity for each other. Standing so near in proximity with those thoughtful gazes, Peter and Mohinder are far too close for Sylar's comfort.

 

It has been just over a week since Sylar had surprised Mohinder at dinner. Since then he has taken his time contacting Mohinder again, although he could very well have called Mohinder the next day with the information he has brought them tonight.

Instead Sylar had stayed low and Mohinder had done exactly as expected. Almost immediately Mohinder had gotten in touch with Peter, who in turn contacted Bennet. Sylar gathers that Mohinder had insisted on Peter staying put until Sylar made the next step.

Now here they are.

Withholding information had been one part strategic and one part personal. Knowing that Massimo was not going anywhere, there existed no urgency for any of them to move at lightning speed.

There was also the slightly humbling feeling of potentially being rusty in his game play predictions. Over the course of the week Sylar had seen the maneuvers leading up to tonight, but actually watching it play out had produced in him an indescribable rush.

The more things changed, the more they stayed the same.

The most important reason for the drawn out week, still poses an issue. With consideration for how dinner had ended, Sylar had desperately needed to regroup.

Ever the wild card, Mohinder still holds two distinct honours. He is the only person, other than family, whom Sylar has ever formed a significant attachment to, a connection that, in all honesty, is unlike any Sylar has ever had.

The flipside is that Mohinder is also the only person who has singularly outthought Sylar. As admirable as that is, a well done he will never admit out loud to Mohinder rests at the back of his mind, it also continues to caution Sylar's already calculated decisions.

Being on the same side as Mohinder does not change anything, but it is easy to fall under the belief that it has, especially with everything that followed.

Sylar chose to wait until he was ready, able to delay the inevitable until it suited him to initiate the next set of moves into play.

At this moment however, a strong sense of resentment that he should be managing, is coming to a boil.

Observing Peter grasp Mohinder with the Petrelli shoulder rub Sylar had come to despise years before, Sylar now restrains himself from rolling his eyes. Curiously it is Mohinder who tosses a quick glance his way before giving Peter an awkward smile and stepping back.

Sylar has been in this situation far more times than he cares to remember. During the First Wave of the Resistance it had become a disruptive, nearly hazardous characteristic of being in the field. With resignation there were many times when he was forced to watch the two of them discuss tactical maneuvers and personal motivations off to the side.

The few times that Sylar had breached that sphere of solidarity, mostly in the early days, Mohinder had ended up playing referee between him and Peter until they were both sent to separate corners lest someone get killed and all their work be for nothing.

Same shit, different day.

Brooding, Sylar would catch Mohinder's firm, hardened look directed at him before turning around and following Peter.

Mohinder always went with Peter. He always chose Peter over Sylar, focusing on the empath over anyone else. Sylar was certain he had been on the receiving end of one or two of Peter's smirks.

Watching their drawn out looks, huddled closeness; hearing the sound of their shared laughter, hands on shoulders, that bright smile, burned an intensity in Sylar to rip Peter's body apart. This night is no different.

All those moments should be his with Mohinder. For everything that Peter has he lacks the strength of intellect and convictions, the willingness to truly lay himself on the line that Sylar recognizes in Mohinder.

As far as Sylar is concerned, Mohinder is far above Peter and only serves to work below his expectations when he puts the young Petrelli first. Mohinder's smile should be for Sylar. They are the two sides of the coin.

Peter is just a tourist, but one who knows some limited tricks of the trade.

Sylar's silence had allowed Peter the opportunity to take responsibility for saving Mohinder's life. Sylar could still correct the falsehood at any time, but self-preservation clamps his mouth shut.

The consequence has been the ever-growing friendship between Peter and Mohinder.

Watching them now, Sylar feels only hostility for the man who has fit himself into such a desired place. A concrete wall, Sylar finds it immensely difficult to break through. He never stops trying.

The incentives are the memories from before the First Wave, from a period that seems like another lifetime but that Sylar remembers with crystal clarity.

The incentives are the times when it was just him and Mohinder during the First Wave moving around the world together while running through the second list, not of innocent Specials (innocent had been Mohinder's word), but of Company related agents and more questionable Specials.

Questionable in that Mohinder had been able to use their destructive behavior to justify letting Sylar kill them to collect their powers, all with the larger picture in mind.

Those brief moments of quiet, often in a foreign country, driving in a rental car or trying to catch some rest in a motel room, when they would either just exist in the comfortably shared silence or talk about the mission, but mostly when they talked about themselves, were the times when Sylar felt the most connected to anything.

There came a time, Sylar thinks it was in Portugal, when those moments made him feel as alive as the burst of energy that came with taking on a new ability. Despite disappearing later on when the battle came to redefine normalcy as nightmarish chaos; despite following his own course of action, Mohinder was already the intractable permanent Sylar discovered he did not want to escape.

Seeking Mohinder out is as natural for Sylar as the actions that his personal evolutionary brilliance demand of him. Whether from afar or up close and personal, the unalterable reality of their shared past is the pinprick of light at the end of a midnight black tunnel.

Sylar is done with watching them pow-wow tonight, treating him as nothing more than some afterthought to put up with. It is time to move things along _his_ way.

Rising to his feet Sylar strides towards the heated conversation. Peter notices his approach first and, folding his arms across his chest, turns his back towards Sylar and Mohinder while pacing a few steps away before turning back around. The cue causes Mohinder to look over at Sylar and brace himself.

"Do you two really think you'll figure this all out tonight?" Sylar asks condescendingly. "It's going to take precise planning to work out the different plays that need to be made within a certain order. And once we get going the timeframe will be tight."

A look of annoyance appears on Peter's face.

"Well this is brilliant coming from you," Peter sarcastically says. "You who couldn't be bothered to follow through with the plans we had the first time around."

"Peter—," Mohinder calmly tries to stop him.

"No, Mohinder, let's lay the cards out on the table," Peter keeps going. "Yes this new information that Sylar has apparently stumbled upon is incredibly important for the cause, but it doesn't change what happened—,"

"You want to talk about what it doesn't change?" Sylar counters with a raised voice, irritated at Peter's implication that this information comes with shady and distrustful underpinnings. "How about the fact that you were completely unprepared the first time with next to zero planning? How about the fact that you—,"

"Sylar!" Mohinder says to no avail.

"Don't bother stopping him now Mohinder, he's on one of his self absorbed rambles," Peter snarks.

Sylar steamrolls over the interruptions and continues to raise his voice.

"—the _fact_ that you rushed in and risked more lives—_unnecessarily_ risked lives so that you could be the big hero—as if it would wipe out that you almost annihilated New York!"

"Would the two of you stop?" Mohinder exasperatedly calls out.

"You son of a bitch!" Peter responds to Sylar. "At least I cared about what happened to everyone. When things didn't go as planned—and at least we tried—I still stuck around to rally the survivors. At least I'm not a coward."

"I didn't realize it required strength to let others shoulder the bulk of the battle…If that's the case then you truly are incredible," Sylar sneers.

"Would you two like me to fetch a ruler?" Mohinder interrupts.

Sylar and Peter look at him in surprise. It is the nearest thing to a crude remark that Mohinder has ever made to either of them.

"Are you both completely incapable of acting like adults?" Mohinder continues.

The surprised silence is split by the ring of a cell phone. With a loud sigh Mohinder retrieves the cell from his pocket and answers it. Sylar watches him close his eyes, exhaustion suddenly etched on his face.

Rubbing his temple with his left hand Mohinder reopens his eyes and mouths "Bennet" at Peter while walking away from them both to continue the mostly one sided conversation, consisting of "uh huh," "hmmm," "I know," "okay," in the living room.

Watching Mohinder's back as he walks away Sylar does not notice Peter stepping close.

"You showing up here does not do him any good," Peter states. "It just gives him another thing to worry about."

Sylar's raises an eyebrow at Peter who continues straightforwardly.

"You going rogue, only doing what matters to you. He feels responsible because of Chandra's work. He feels guilty because he didn't kill you when he had the chance. He really doesn't need this now…this reminder."

Sylar watches Peter carefully, taking in the expression on his face, listening to the words he has decided to use for his argument. Sylar deconstructs the firm eyes that still twitch in the corners and the slightly shaky voice only apparent at the end of the sentences when there is a pause before the next word.

"Whereas you two are the best of friends?" Sylar contradicts smoothly, playing on his perception of Peter's masked nervousness. "You two are glorified acquaintances, Peter, nothing more. You're trying to get him to step into your brother's place and Mohinder is too polite to decline, no matter how detrimental it is to him. You've dragged him in so far with needy desperation that he's stuck. You've trapped him—,"

"Bennet will be here tomorrow evening. He says he has some connections near where Massimo is believed to be…then again this is Bennet so who knows," Mohinder informs them as he hangs up the phone and walks back towards the kitchen.

He and Sylar exchange a slightly amused expression over regarding Bennet. The undecipherable motives of the once Company agent had become a running joke for a time between Mohinder and Sylar while they made their way through the Netherlands.

"I think we should all try to get some rest tonight and start with clear heads tomorrow," suggests Mohinder. "You're staying at Nouvel Hotel on Santa Ana, right Peter?"

"Yes. They have a breakfast so why don't you swing by tomorrow around 8:30?" Peter answers while carefully staking a claim in front of Sylar.

"I don't know if Mohinder will be up that early. Could be a long night," Sylar muses while ignoring Mohinder and focusing on Peter.

"You're staying here?" Peter asks, surprised, before directing his attention to Mohinder. "Is that safe?"

Mohinder looks to Sylar who in turn watches him with a muted expression. They had not discussed where Sylar would spend the night when Sylar had called him at work the day before and Mohinder's answer now will tell Sylar more than either of the other men could begin to fathom.

Mohinder looks back at Peter and says awkwardly, "Ah yeah, he's staying here tonight, sleeping on the sofa—,"

"Really, Mohinder, considering the traveling I've been doing I think a proper bed is necessary," Sylar interrupts, calculated intentions behind his words.

A slightly perplexed look settles on Mohinder's face but he also looks as if he wants to avoid another fight.

"Fine I'll take the sofa."

"Well that's very kind of you," Sylar smirks as he makes his way to the bedroom.

He can hear Peter asking Mohinder if everything will be all right. Sylar cannot help but smile when Mohinder answers that it will be fine, he can handle his guest. They say their goodbyes and the sound of the front door opening and closing precedes Mohinder's pounding footsteps to the bedroom.

When Sylar looks up he is met with Mohinder's glaring eyes. The sight brings another smile to his face; this one tinged with the audacity that Sylar feels proudly.

While Sylar takes his time stripping down to his boxers, Mohinder grabs a pillow from the double bed and an extra blanket from the closet. Stalking out of the room Mohinder throws the pillow and blanket on the sofa before returning to the bedroom for his pajamas, consisting of a white t-shirt and gray drawstring cotton pants.

Sylar sits on the edge of the bed and watches Mohinder thump around him, obviously mad.

"Is this about the bed—,"

But an indignant glance from Mohinder tells Sylar that is not the case.

"Peter has always been too sensitive," Sylar changes direction with an insulting tone. "You can always go after him to see if he needs a shoulder to lean on. I'm sure he's expecting you right now."

The words stop Mohinder in the doorway.

"What are you on about?" Mohinder asks frustratingly.

Sylar's stony eyes take on Mohinder's questioning ones.

"Your oh-so-caring confidante," Sylar coldly declares. "He always got your extra special attention. Why should now be any different?"

They both stare at each other, unblinking, intensity behind their eyes.

"Close the door behind you," Sylar orders.

If looks could kill Sylar imagines that Mohinder's glare would have struck him dead at this moment. Instead Sylar ignores it while settling under the covers. Mohinder bangs the light switch down and slams the door behind him.

In the dark Sylar focuses in on Mohinder's steps towards the sofa and the rustling of clothing as he changes. Mohinder's breathing is deep, suggesting his mind is racing through disconcerting thoughts as he settles onto the sofa with the blanket pulled around him. The strong heartbeat tells Sylar that Mohinder is far from falling asleep.

The loss of time sets in somewhere amidst all the tossing and turning. When Sylar looks over at the alarm clock next to the bed and sees a bright red 3:00am lit up he realizes he has been awake for four hours. Sleeping should not be a problem but for some reason his senses, specifically his hearing, keep zoning in and focusing on Mohinder's erratic pattern in the other room; without forethought on Sylar's part.

When Sylar can no longer take the painfully stretched out period of fitful insomnia he throws his blanket off and opens the bedroom door, peaking from the doorframe. Stepping into the living room he spies Mohinder shifting around restlessly, his blanket tangled up his legs.

Sylar steps next to the sofa and whispers Mohinder's name but gets no response. Kneeling down Sylar places his hand on Mohinder's arm.

"Mohinder!" he says more firmly.

Mohinder's eyes fly open in a panic.

"What? What's wrong?" he worriedly asks while sitting up.

"You. Would you just come to bed?" Sylar asks drowsily.

"What?"

"You're keeping me up with all the moving around."

"I'm not sleeping in there with you."

"Look, either you come of your own free will or I'll take you. It's your choice Mohinder," Sylar states.

Defiant at first, Mohinder's eyes eventually relax. Slowly he stands up and, picking up his pillow, heads to the bedroom with Sylar lumbering behind him. Mohinder hesitates at the bed.

"Other side is warmer," Sylar shares tiredly while running his left hand through his hair and pointing his right hand to the side of the bed he had been trying to sleep on.

Mohinder moves to that side and lies down, pulling the blanket up and placing the pillow beneath his head. Sylar climbs in on the cooler side and tries to resettle but the closeness to Mohinder in the double bed only creates another distraction.

Moving his body to get more comfortable Sylar's arm brushes Mohinder's. Snatching his arm back from the contact and nearly adjusting his body right off the side of the bed, Mohinder's adamant voice breaks the silence.

"Watch it!"

"I'll try to restrain myself," Sylar mutters sarcastically.

For the next few minutes nothing is said but Sylar can tell that the both of them are lying wide awake in the darkness consumed by a plethora of thoughts. Sylar's keep coming back to the warm man next to him.

It has been ages since they were last this close but at that time two full days of non-stop driving in Germany had rendered them so exhausted that when they hit the motel room they had both collapsed onto the one bed and slept through to the following morning, waking up almost on top of each other.

It is difficult being this close while being so aware.

The thoughts that manifest are far deeper than normal. Sylar is unsure if it is the product of a tired mind or the clarity of undisturbed wonderings. Either way the knowledge of Mohinder fully cognitive next to him, so close to him, is both comforting and absolutely frightening. Without truly realizing it before, he has missed sharing his personal space with Mohinder.

His mind drifts to—what if—back in—

"Frankfurt."

Mohinder's voice snaps Sylar out of his thoughts.

"What?" asks Sylar.

A moment passes before Mohinder replies, "This is almost like Frankfurt after those two days of driving."

Sylar smiles in the darkness at Mohinder's remembrance. Mostly he is impressed by Mohinder's unprompted trip to their past. Back to a time that still feels as if it exists separate form the darker reality that encompassed them.

"Frankfurt? I hadn't thought about that…so long ago," Sylar purposely lies.

Mohinder says nothing and they fall back into quiet. Time ticks by with no closer movement towards sleep.

Sylar is about to turn on his side, away from Mohinder, when he hears Mohinder clear his throat.

"Peter is incredibly strong."

Sylar rolls his eyes yet listens as Mohinder explains.

"But he hasn't mastered multiple powers like you. You could use six or seven at once without a problem. Peter…he can get overwhelmed and lose control. I have to worry about him."

"But not me?" questions Sylar, a trace of fight in his voice.

Out of the corner of Sylar's eye he sees Mohinder turn his face to look at him.

"When you hurt someone with your powers it's intentional. With Peter it can be as much a fluke as anything else. The burden is greater on him," Mohinder tentatively lays out his reasoning. "Somehow you always manage to come out okay. You never needed to depend on anyone."

Sylar lets the words sink in. They are the closest to overt admiration Mohinder has ever offered him. Sylar turns his head to look at Mohinder, faintly lit by the light from outside the bedroom window. In the light speckled darkness their eyes meet.

"It's…it's a relief to not have to worry about you in the same way," Mohinder confesses quickly looking back to the ceiling.

Sylar keeps his eyes on Mohinder's profile. He watches the rise and fall of Mohinder's chest and the light flutter of his eyelashes blinking in the bluish light that highlights their bodies.

"But you worry about me?" Sylar asks curiously.

"I'd be an idiot not to," Mohinder pointedly says ignoring the double sided meaning that Sylar's tone suggests.

Sylar rests his left hand on his chest while placing his right arm behind his head.

"Chasing after Peter is only going to bind you to him. You'll always be trying to clean up his mistakes," Sylar gently goads Mohinder into thinking about the situation he has set up for himself.

"That's not true. He's my friend. It's my choice to do what I can to help him," Mohinder says defensively.

"You're doing it out of obligation not friendship," Sylar counters. "You're going to end up resenting him."

When Mohinder says nothing Sylar goes on.

"Unless you already do."

"Shut up," Mohinder utters.

Hitting a touchy subject only encourages Sylar to keep pushing, to force the issue that has always been the sticky point between them.

"That's it. Petrelli's already driving you nuts, testing your patience—,"

Suddenly Mohinder sits up and levels dark eyes at a confounded Sylar. Mohinder's defensive reaction elicits a smirk from Sylar who sits up staunchly and shifts until he can rest his back against the headboard while folding his arms across this chest.

In Mohinder's face he reads the maddened defiance that indicates the passionate drive lit beneath. Sylar watches Mohinder turn his back and sit on the edge of the bed. Under Sylar's gaze, Mohinder's hands first grip the edge of the bed before he raises them to cradle his head. The gesture only lasts a minute before Mohinder steps up and walks over to the window.

Looking past the parted curtains the combination of the streetlight with the dusky light of the moon gives Mohinder's body an ethereal glow that Sylar finds unexpectedly captivating. He tries to commit the image to memory, like some classical still life.

"I'll never resent Peter," Mohinder says clearly while looking outside. "As long as he is motivated by the selfless want to do the right thing he will have me at his side."

Mohinder turns and walks back to the bed. Looking down at Sylar, an act of power that Sylar agonizingly admires, Mohinder leans forward with his hands pressing down on the mattress.

"You need to get use to that."

They hold the unwavering stare.

Eventually, Sylar sternly states, "I'll never accept the blind following of an emotionally driven—,"

"Do you understand the concept of hypocrisy? Any time you and Peter are together it devolves into an emotional duel."

"It has nothing to do with emotions," Sylar clarifies flatly at the distasteful notion.

"Right. It has nothing to do with wanting what he has," Mohinder sarcastically hits back, glancing towards the window before sitting back on the bed with one leg folded beneath him and the other hanging off the side, his foot resting on the floor.

Sylar reflects on his response to figure out how much he wants to share. He reminds himself that this is the type of personal discussion he has missed with Mohinder, but now that it is upon him there is a timidity to his steps that comes from the worry of sharing what cannot then be taken back. Mohinder's lack of awareness or purposeful obtuseness regarding Sylar's issue with Peter is not helping matters.

"I've come to accept the…conditions of the hand dealt me," Sylar cautiously shares. "There are some things that are out of my power to change, just as there are other things simply depending on the right moment."

Looking at Mohinder's resistant gaze towards the wall, Sylar tries to break down the line of defense established in an act of offensive protection.

"Mohinder…Mohinder."

Sylar waits until Mohinder's undivided attention is on him.

"You need to play catch up," Sylar says. "You may have a countless handful who will fight at your side but each of us only has a few, usually only one, who really gets us. It is rare to find someone willing to even consider the idea of trading his life for yours. Peter and Nathan, Bennet and Claire—,"

"Are you suggesting that that's who we are to each other?" Mohinder asks sardonically, but Sylar can hear the understanding in his voice that he is trying to disguise.

Sylar waits before responding.

"You remember Nikolai Karmikov?"

Mohinder frowns and considers the question. The realization of where Sylar is going with this flits across Mohinder's face much to Sylar's deep appreciation.

"The Russian bookie who could created false memories in Ankara?" Mohinder asks already knowing the answer.

"That's not all he was, Mohinder."

Sylar carefully observes the fidgety nervousness in Mohinder's fingers and the quick intake of breath. He can hear Mohinder's heart beginning to speed up at the memory of their urgent trip to Turkey.

"He was the first of the…acceptable murders."

Mohinder closes his eyes at the truth Sylar will not let him ignore.

"You already know Mohinder…when you agreed to let me build up my collection, to help the Resistance, by going after those Specials who posed a threat to all those innocents you had made it your mission to protect…you compromised yourself. For me you sacrificed your ideals by going against those lofty expectations you could never live up to."

Opening his eyes Mohinder casts fiery eyes at Sylar.

"I didn't do it for you. I did it for—when the options were weighed—," Mohinder attempts to justify.

"Do you really think any of the others would have made the same decision?" Sylar questions unflinchingly. "Do you think Matt or even Bennet would have accepted that risk? No. You did that, Mohinder. For me."

Mohinder hesitates before fuming, "What's your point?"

"The point," Sylar sighs, "Is that you and I are not the same people who met at Zane Taylor's front door. Things changed. I don't know why you feel you still owe Peter because you ignored him once."

"You don't understand it because you've never been loyal to anyone other than yourself," Mohinder reprimands him. "All that matters in your world is you. You turn up, help out, when there is something in it for you."

"Self-preservation, Mohinder. You should look into it. The desire to protect oneself is one of the most basic human goals. We are all driven by our wants," Sylar admits with great authority.

"And what exactly do you _want _to get out of this?" Mohinder interjects, his heated words riddled with concern.

Sylar barricades his quick response behind pursed lips. The censored words are not the one he was expecting and fighting them back, pushing them down, proves a difficult task. He knows what he…_should _want, and he still does crave it—power—greatness—admiration—but that is not what tried to rush forth and lay claim in the stillness between them. That is not what tried to unleash itself from the hidden corners of his mind.

It goes far beyond Sylar wanting Mohinder to know that he would do whatever it takes to protect his life. It exists deeper than looking in on Mohinder from time to time to make sure he is okay. All these gestures seem small in comparison to the complicated truth. It is a truth that would be simple if they were not so chained to an unforgiving past.

Who he is bears the war wounds of conjoining who was once buried all those years when Gabriel was the name he still answered to, the innate strength of mind and will called forward, with the construct he so delicately put into place.

No room for anyone else, it was not necessary, Mohinder has become the most inopportune sucker punch. Mohinder forces considerations into Sylar's plans but does not seem to understand the significance of Sylar's allowance for those checks and balances. No one else has ever held that claim.

_And what exactly do you want to get out of this?   
_  
Not the one thing that would matter.

"Nothing that concerns you," Sylar continues firmly.

The confused look on Mohinder's face brings a quiet relief to Sylar as it indicates that he has managed to avoid the trap of revealing too much.

Their gaze held; Sylar initiates the end by moving to lie down in the bed. Mohinder quietly follows his lead. Again time passes with them both staring up at the ceiling. Soon Mohinder moves on his side, placing his back to Sylar, while remaining still very conscious to the world.

A minute later Sylar turns on his side, facing Mohinder's body. In the movement Sylar's left arm, swung over and bent upwards, accidentally rests against Mohinder's back.

The instinctive flinch that Sylar expects does not happen.

He watches his arm against the white shirt and can hear the heartbeat pounding from Mohinder's body. Sylar keeps his arm steady; he can feel the shallow breaths in and out of Mohinder's chest.

Almost soothing, he counts them. In and out, they measure out the passing of time in the dwindling hours.

Then, against expectations a reminder occurs, telling Sylar that trying to figure Mohinder out will always be an endless search with twists and turns. Tonight it is something altogether staggering.

Mohinder finally moves, subtle enough in the most miniscule of adjustments. However, he does not distance himself from Sylar in some act of assertive resistance. Rather he shifts back, _into _Sylar's touch.

Their physical contact now unavoidable, Sylar's senses are on full alert, trying to take in every single element of this surprising turn.

The heat from Mohinder's body pulses through to Sylar's skin and their breathing steadily falls into a rhythm. Scooting forward a bit Sylar maintains the small distance between their bodies while resting his arm more firmly against Mohinder's back.

There is nothing accidental or tentative about their actions but Sylar still wishes he could see Mohinder's face to remove all doubt.

Sylar spies the peek of dark skin from Mohinder's lower back just below the somewhat hitched up t-shirt. He is tempted to move his hand closer, hypnotically preoccupied by their contrast, but he does not dare risk the breaking of the unpredicted spell that surrounds them.

Sylar settles for the suggested hint of Mohinder's dark skin beneath the shirt that is flush against his back, just beyond his concentrated touch. There's a symbolism here he would ruminate on if his mind was not so incredibly overwhelmed.

Listening closely Sylar hears Mohinder's breathing become more laboured. The deeper it goes he realizes that Mohinder is falling asleep. Sylar revels in the sounds of Mohinder's calmed and steady heartbeat and the simple musky scent rising from his skin. A sensation sweeps over Sylar, relaxing his mind, enticing him for one night to give over to the meditative wave of being with the one he…

Gazing longingly at his arm along Mohinder's back, his eyes grow hazy and a small smile turns up the corners of his lips.

Sylar follows Mohinder into sleep. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Heroes Slash Awards  
> **Nominated for Best Sequel** (WINNER)  
> **Nominated for Best Mohinder/Sylar Fic (G-PG13)**


End file.
